Playing with Death
by Fluffy Darkness
Summary: Companion piece to Sneaking and Snakeskin. The curse on Rumpelstiltskin's knife has resulted in Belle's death, and now he must make the ultimate sacrifice in order to save her soul. Everything rests on a single game of chess.


_This is a companion piece to _Sneaking and Snakeskin_, and if you've haven't read that you won't understand a lot of the stuff being talked about. This takes place during the scene where Rumpelstiltskin is saving Belle from the darkness consuming her. This will sound strange, but it takes place literally right before Belle kisses Rumpel. Trust me, it'll make sense. I nearly included this in the actual story, but then decided not to because it doesn't actually contribute to the plot and has a strange pov. This little plot bunny was inspired by the line, "Death does not appreciate being cheated."_

* * *

Death is…bored. It's been a quiet day, not a great many people passing through, at least, not as many as usual. Odd, she would've known if a war had just ended. She sits at her chessboard, marble knight in hand, and skips it across the black and white checkers. It's been quite some time since she played a game, a few hours ago at least, and that one wasn't any fun at all. She'd been playing against an adolescent, one who worked the fields of his father's farm, who'd never picked up a pawn in his entire life. Those sorts of games are always the worst, for rules are rules and she must assume the skill of her opponent – meaning that the game can go on for a length with neither player knowing how to move their pieces or even the object of the game – otherwise no one would ever get a second chance, which is what the game is for.

Most souls pass through her domain, onto the afterlife, without event, but those who are not ready, those who have perished too soon, sit down across from Death, wielding black pieces against her white. To the winner goes the spoils, and if it is the challenger, the prize is a second chance at life; if it is Death, she gets one more tally mark for the ledger.

Death looks up as a pinprick of light opens and disrupts the eternal blackness surrounding her and the chessboard in all directions – there can be no distractions during a game with such high stakes – and from the light emerges a soul, a girl, stark naked, curiously black veins spider-webbing across blue-tinted skin. With a wave of Death's hand, a white negligee weaves itself around her body, the edges of the garment fluttering as she floats down to Death's level. Well, she isn't a girl, more a young woman, but all are childlike in Death's eyes.

The soul places a timid foot forward, but it simply sinks into nothingness, and she kicks her legs, seeking purchase where there is none to be found. The movement propels her upward a few inches, and she swivels her head about, dark eyes wide, nearly purple lips pursed in distress. Belle, her name is Belle. A fitting name, Death thinks, for she has beauty even in her magic-induced suffering. She can tell that the girl has been suffering greatly; that time does not exist in this realm is a blessing for Belle, for she shall feel no pain while they girl has played before, and though she is no expert, she will certainly be a more enjoyable opponent than the last.

"Where am I?" Belle asks.

"Dead," she replies, and the girl's eyes widen further. "Well, almost," she corrects herself. "But you're not ready, are you, child." It isn't a question, but rather an observation. Those who sit across from Death at the chessboard are never ready.

"No, I can't be dead," she says calmly, though her voice shakes just barely with rising panic. Compared to others, she's handling the news well. Some burst into tears, some vehemently deny the truth, a few have leapt over the chess table in an attempt to break what they believe to be some sort of illusion, and some don't respond at all.

"I apologize. This is certainly a shock to you, but the truth is that you are dead."

"No, I can't be." Apparently, she is one of the deniers. "I haven't yet...I was going to —"

The surrounding blackness vibrates with a loud knocking.

Someone wants in.

This is a strange occurrence, for most souls are unaware of the fact that they are on the verge of perishing, and of the few that do know, none of them have ever knocked on Death's door, pardon the phrase. If the chessboard is unoccupied, the soul automatically enters; otherwise, the door to this place seals itself and any souls in line to play for their lives must wait their turn, outside in what might as well be considered a waiting room of sorts, all blackness but with a few cushy armchairs in case the wait is long.

The knocking grows in volume, almost panicked in nature.

Perhaps it is Fate. Her sister has never been patient when it comes to bringing news about the mortals. She places so much importance in the tiniest of things, like the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, which will result in hurricane that levels a kingdom, but never before has she interrupted a game, which tells of a specific urgency in this case. Because this is such a strange event, Death decides to allow the visitor entrance, and with a wave of her hand, another pinprick of light opens. At the sight of the intruding soul, clad in leather and dragon-hide, she grins. This is a meeting she has been anticipating for a long time, though admittedly it is premature. This soul is still alive.

"I would ask if my eyes deceive me, but they never do," she says by way of greeting. "What brings you here, Rumpelstiltskin?"

Immortals, those capable of evading Death's reach, have always rubbed her the wrong way. To avoid the natural cycle of Life and Death is simply, well, unnatural. The Dark One is the worst of all, immune to time, sickness, the sharp edge of a blade. Well, all but one blade.

His footing, unlike Belle's, is certain, and he navigates the darkness as though it were solid ground beneath him. "Agatha," he hails with an exaggerated bow. The audacity this creature has, to call Death by her name rather than her title, is insulting. The sheer amount of power and knowledge that he possesses, that he _knows_ Death's name, is alarming. "It appears I'm just in time," he says.

"I will not repeat myself again. Why have you come here, Dark One?" She does not fear him, for he can bring her no harm. Hs has great power, but not enough to destroy a goddess. However, the fact that a living being has the power to part his soul from his body and pass into her realm is unsettling. And because he is not dead, she has no power over him, no insight into his thoughts, motives, or memories. Hers is a realm meant for the dead and the dead only. To avoid Death's grasp and yet pass through this realm while still alive is nothing but unnatural.

"I'm here to collect what belongs to me," he says, sparing a sidelong glance at the girl.

"Her? She may have belonged to you at one time, but now she is mine. Or, she will be, if she fails to win." She gestures to the chessboard.

He inspects his claws. "What a shame you won't get a chance to play her. She's an entertaining adversary."

"You think I'll just let her go? I wouldn't have believed someone as smart as you to be so naive."

"No, no, I'm aware that you're incapable of charity." Death snorts at that, for it is very much a case of the pot calling the kettle black. "I simply said that you will not be playing against her."

Death steeples her fingers. "Continue."

"You must get bored here, with nothing but simpletons as opponents. Surely, you would not pass up the chance for a real challenge." He places his clawed hands on the chessboard and leans forward, looking positively impish. Here, surrounded by dark emptiness, his features stand out moreso than in the mortal realm. Here, he looks like a creature crawled out from the fiery depths of Hell, or slithered, with eyes that would linger in any child's nightmares. She's seen worse, but still, the girl has strange tastes.

"What do you propose?"

"Play against me." His smile is devious.

"You're invoking the right of substitution?" Although she has never played against a living soul before, the possibility was considered and rules set forth in case such a thing ever happened.

He waves a hand dismissively. "Call it whatever you like, but what I'm doing is offering you a deal. Play against me. If you win, you take me in her place. But if I win, you let her leave with me. Either way, you'll get a better game than I'm sure you've had in ages."

Rumpelstiltskin truly is a deal-maker extraordinaire. The fact that he would dare try to bargain with Death is further proof of his impudence, but that he did not insult her with petty offerings displays promise. One soul is worth nothing more or less than another soul. "You could simply invoke the right of substitution. It means that you take her place in game and punishment."

"Will you feel better if you give it a title?" he asks, as though she is a child.

The nerve of this creature is absolutely appalling.

"I'm only making it official," she clarifies."I am not bound by your deals, your magic, Rumpelstiltskin. Surely, someone as old and wise as you would know that I am the one who holds the power here." She isn't one for bluffing, because she's never had reason to do so before, but one cannot be too careful around the likes of the Dark One. And she does hold the power here, over the dead, that is. "Suppose I should decide to break my end of the deal. What then?"

"Oh, I can tell that you're the honorable type."

Trying to read Death, is he? That is of the greatest offense. He is correct, of course. A god never breaks his or her word. But still, his words carry a suggestion, that his reading of her is more than a guess, that he knows just how binding her words are.

"Can you do nothing without the circumstances of a deal monitoring your every move?" she asks, internally wincing at the irritation coloring her words."Does it make you feel better, more…in control?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Perhaps."

"My dear," she says, picking up a pawn, "I did not imagine you to be so candid." She inspects the piece for chips or flaws. There are none, as the pieces are merely an extension of her being, but she still likes to make sure they are perfect for every game.

"Things have been a bit beyond my control for a time now." His eyes flicker over to Belle, who only stands with fidgeting hands, silently observing.

Hers is a restless soul. This should not be put off any longer.

She smiles, a touch of sympathy blooming within her. Women have always been a mystery to men, and it seems that even the mighty Rumpelstiltskin has been unable to puzzle out the fairer sex, especially one working her own sort of magic on him. "I shall accommodate you then. I would never be unkind to a challenger."

"Then I'll repeat, if you win, you take me in her place. But if I win, you let her leave with me once our business is concluded." When she has yet to respond, he says, "Think about it this way. If you win, you get me, the Dark One. You'd be taking a great evil out of the world."

"The balance of good and evil is of no concern to me."

"But I've been around for a while. Surely that's a thorn in your side, the whole immortality thing? You could end me with a game, with little marble carvings." He picks up one of the pieces and rolls it between his palms. A shiver runs through Death at the odd caress. "And then you could brag to all your fellow gods, goddesses, and forces of nature."

For him to treat her like some commoner, some easily swindled, desperate sod that would fall for his silver words and serpent's tongue is proof of his soiled soul. It is so hard to believe that this creature was once nothing more than a kind, honest spinner, if a coward even then, whose heart overflowed with love for his son. It was cruel, she knows, how the events of his human life transpired, and she feels a morsel of pity for him, that he fell victim to Fate's cruel and capricious ways, but it is no excuse for what he is today. She may be unable to condemn him for his actions, and truly she meant it when she said that good and evil are of no concern to her, but she will gladly send him to his afterlife.

"Very well. You have yourself a deal, Rumpelstiltskin." She glances over at Belle. "Would you like an audience?"

He doesn't even pause to consider the offer. "No. Let her wait in comfort."

With a snap of Death's fingers, Belle vanishes. She will rest in the waiting room, kept company by a selection of books she should find interesting enough. The girl enjoys her romances, the ones that have happy endings. It is time to see if hers shall be one of them.

"It's obvious she feels no pain or discomfort here," she says. "What is your true motive for sending her away?"

"I wish to discuss some things that she has no need to hear." Yes, of course the decision was made only for his own benefit.

Death gestures to the empty seat. "Please, sit."

With a flourish of coattails, he sits across from her.

"A bit overdressed, don't you think?" she asks, gesturing to his ensemble.

"Excuse me if I don't prefer to present myself in naught but a mere shift like your subjects."

"She was naked. Care to explain that?"

He says nothing, eyes darting to stare at the chessboard. Oh, he will certainly make for an amusing opponent.

"Now, no cheating," she warns.

He lays a hand over his chest. "Me? Cheat? Perish the thought. However, I shall play to the utmost of my abilities."

"I'd be insulted if you didn't."

"And you're one to talk about cheating, putting pieces where they shouldn't be." He gestures toward her side of the board, where her rook and king are resting on each other's spaces.

"Forgive me. It seems as though the appearance of the Dark One has dizzied me." Honestly, it has put her somewhat out of sorts. To have a living soul sit across from her is an unprecedented event, and the vibrations his emits create a high warbling twang, much different from the low hum of departed souls. He doesn't seem to hear it though, much to her chagrin, because it's quite annoying.

"You flatter me, dearie." She can't tell whether his tone is mocking, but nonetheless she smiles.

"Let us begin."

Immediately, a rush of warmth washes over her, the knowledge of her opponent. Usually, she will feel a difference, patches within her mind where moves and strategies have disappeared from memory, to match the skill of the challenger. Now, there are no holes, none that she can sense at any rate. Oh yes, this will be fun.

The first move is hers, and she sets a pawn forward a square.

"So. You care for her. That much is obvious."

He grunts in response, mirroring her move.

"I daresay you may love her, if your presence here is any indication. Only a man in love would follow his heart's desire to Death myself." Another pawn moves forward."Many a noble man, as well as many a fool, has sacrificed himself for loved ones, but you are not noble, nor are you a fool. I would never have guessed you capable of sacrifice."

"You talk as though you've already won." His knight enters the fray.

"Indeed. I've never had such skill at my command while playing. I feel rather confident, I admit." She laughs as her bishop takes a pawn. How correct he was, that this game would be the best she's played in ages. The pieces have never moved so fast before."The question is…does she love you in return?"

His fingers grip a pawn a tad more tightly than necessary. Yes, the conversation is already getting under his skin. She tends to stick to pleasant chitchat for both sides during these games, but she has no desire to make this man comfortable.

"No," he murmurs.

He is correct. She doesn't, not yet. Death read the girl at her first opportunity, and she does not love Rumpelstiltskin. But the potential is there, a warm fondness in the girl's heart. For the moment, it's burdened by anger, the sting of rejection. Nonetheless, it is there. If nourished, it will bloom and grow into a beautiful thing. If not, it will wilt in the shadow of negligence and eventually die. At the moment, she and her affection are in a fragile state. Death can't possibly imagine what she sees in Rumpelstiltskin, but it really isn't her business. Fate works in strange, and silly, ways. Exposing the Dark One to a kind, innocent girl and vice versa may amount to something significant in time.

"So how do I fix her?" he asks, taking one of her pawns.

"What do you mean?"

"When I win," so arrogant, "she returns with me. But that does not mean she'll be cured. If you were playing against her and she should win, you would cure her ailment yourself. But because I am your opponent, and the right of substitution has not been invoked, that same luxury shall not be extended to her." The fact that he knows the intricacies of her methods throws her for a loop. He did not fail to enact the right at first because he did not know of it, because of ignorance, which means that not doing so works in his favor. What sort of game is he playing? "I've tried every option I can think of, but even the one thing that appeared to be working, well, obviously didn't. At most, I've bought her a few more excruciating minutes before she returns here. So, have you any advice?"

She is not obligated to offer him any answers, and his craftiness, although admirable, has only served to vex her, but the fact that he is asking for help, that he acknowledges his own shortcomings, is something she would not have expected from him.

She takes his knight. "You might cast a sleeping curse upon her. It would keep her body in its current state, insuring she remains alive until you find a cure."

"Ah, but then there's the problem of waking her."

She grins. He's too clever to fall for such a feeble trick. After all, he is a trickster.

"Kiss her," she suggests.

"I believe we've been over this. True love's kiss is not an option." His tone is frosty at best, and there goes another of her pawns. That certainly is a tender subject, a chord from which so much pleasure is to be gained by plucking at it.

"I never said it was." At the puzzled furrowing of his brow, she says, "Just do it. And I don't mean kiss her. I mean _kiss_ her." A smirk lingers on her lips. "You'll figure it out, assuming you get the chance, of course." She takes a bishop.

For a while, there is no sound but that of marble clacking against marble, as seized soldiers pile up beside each player. His strategy is strange, in her opinion. For one thing, he doesn't appear to be in any hurry to take her king, yet his movements are quick, precise. He takes her final pawn, and she frowns.

"You do realize," she starts, "whether you win or lose, she won't remember this. She won't know she lives because of you."

He falters, fingers twitching, just a second before moving a knight, and he looks at her strangely, as though the thought never crossed his , something that the Dark One does not know.

"The people that say they see a white light, those are the ones that win. The only thing they remember is the flash of light when the soul returns to the realm of the living, and she will be no different."

"No matter," is all he says as her queen takes the knight.

"You don't want to be recognized for your victory, to be her hero? A woman would surely swoon to know a man is truly willing to follow her to Death myself."

He doesn't respond, choosing instead to slide his rook forward to take her bishop. Let him take it. He's set the rook right beside her white one, leaving a path to his king open once she moves the piece, and his silence is answer enough. Of course he would like her to know, but recognition is not important to him in this affair. What matters is saving the girl.

That is what puzzles her. Rumpelstiltskin is not noble. Neither is he foolish. When he still contained a shred of humanity, aside from a streak of cowardness he _was_ noble, and he _was_ foolish. When he became the Dark One, that first trait quickly diminished, save for in regards to his son. Once the boy was ripped away from him, he lost what remained of his humanity and any noble fiber in his being. Over the centuries, through constant deals and contracts, he lost his foolishness.

Something has changed. Belle has reignited that tiny flame of humanity that has been extinguished for so long. She is the light in the Dark One's life, the light that makes this blooming love possible. Perhaps it is not foolishness or noble inclinations that have brought him to Death's realm. Perhaps it is love, nothing more.

Perhaps it is…true love.

"Check," he says, startling her.

She laughs, wondering exactly what sort of game he has been playing this entire time. "Dear Rumpelstiltskin, have you forgotten how to play? The object of the game is to capture my king." She gestures to the piece sitting out of harm's way. "And you're in no position to take any of my pieces." With ease, she slides her rook one space to the right, taking his black one.

The grin flitting about his face is unsettling, certainly not the reaction she was expecting. "Of course, you're right, Agatha. But now I must say…checkmate."

She snaps her hand back as her rook appears to melt before her, marble edges softening, and the piece transforms, stretching before her very eyes; her king, likewise, shrinks and grows a bit more compact. Two spaces adjacent to her rook-turned-king sits his queen. And now, it is his move. He slides his queen toward her king, slamming the piece into hers and knocking it from the board. His face is brimming with poorly-masked glee. Clever, she thinks, making her move her own king into checkmate without even being aware of it. She'd set those pieces in their correct places after all.

Magic is not meant to exist in this realm, no magic but hers. And her pieces, he has tainted her lovely, pure, chess pieces with his filthy magic. That he has power enough to alter the very fabric of her being, for that is what the pieces are, and his touch so subtle that she would not feel it, is frightening and enraging. He has no right to touch her, to hold and caress her in so intimate a manner. He is an abomination, and he should not exist. His powers, the true Dark One, were locked up in that jar for a reason. And all undone by a child's curiosity. Whose idea was it again to put her in charge of the jar? Idiot, whoever it was.

"You cheated," she says. She would be displeased with the outcome if not for that very important detail.

"Did I?" he asks, feigning innocence. "I don't recall making any illegal moves. Actually, it seems that you're the one who's been doing that, wouldn't you agree?" She did move her king much further than permitted, even though she was oblivious of her actions.

"You altered my pieces."

"A simple enchantment, easy enough to detect. What of it?"

"That is against the rules."

"Your rules perhaps, the rules of the right of substitution. A good thing that we're not playing by those, yes?"

She says nothing, a cold fury twisting within her at being tricked. But what he says is true. By not enacting the right of substitution, he was not her official opponent, and so he was bound by no rules but those of a simple chess game, which do not include any details about morphing a player's piece to look like another. But Death is bound by her own rules in any game, and he forced her to cheat. Any victory of hers would have been nullified by that detail. And should she deny Belle her life, when Death's king has been conquered, she would be breaking the rules, which she shan't do willingly. She also gave her word that the girl would live should Rumpelstiltskin win the game. And he has won. It is an unfair victory, one undeserved, with loopholes exploited to their extent, but it is a victory all the same. Her arms are tied from multiple avenues.

"Very well," she says, hands spread in defeat. "But before I give you your housekeeper, I've a question for you. How do you know so much about my game?"

At this inquiry, his expression is positively smug. "The same way I gained my second sight: your sister."

"Which one?"

"I'll give you a hint." He leans over the board with a conniving grin, and whispers. "She's quite the whore."

Death looks at him blankly. Unfortunately, that is not a very good hint, which certainly says a lot about the company she keeps.

"No?" He claps his hands together, eyes alight with amusement. "How about this? Let's just say that I've been touched by fate more than once." He grins at the way she sets her jaw in disgust. "Yes, it was a fortuitous meeting. She'd had a bit to drink, and frankly, I couldn't get her to shut up about you." He stands up, clearly satisfied with the amount of antipathy he has instilled in her during this meeting, and adjusts his waistcoat. "Now, I'd like my prize."

With a snap of her fingers, Belle reappears in a flash of light, a book in hand. Rumpelstiltskin wraps a possessive arm around the girl's shoulders and plucks the novel from her loose fingers. Yes, there is love in his eyes, and the kiss he presses to her forehead is further proof of where his heart lies. Belle gazes up at him with wonder, but Death knows that the caress, as well as everything she has witnessed here, will be forgotten upon waking.

"Dearest Agatha, if you remember anything, remember this," he says, setting the book down on the chessboard, sending pieces rolling. "Never play by anyone's rules but your own, and only let others play by theirs if it works in your favor."

And then, he and Belle are gone.

Death picks up the scattered chess pieces and arranges them in their correct positions.

He never had a chance of losing. How ignorant of her, she sees, to have thought him capable of sacrifice. She'll certainly not make that mistake again.

Although he has immense power, even some granted by a goddess, his journey into her realm will have taxed that power. She may be unable to bring about the end of immortals, but she still has a few tricks up her sleeve. Grasping onto the tendrils of his magic left behind, she tugs, but it holds fast. A few more yanks, and she feels it give, unraveling like a ribbon. She draws it to her, yard by yard, until her fingers grip magic that interweaves with the fabric of his life force, his soul, and the line grows taught. It is cold, vibrating with strength and darkness, and she rakes a nail down one particular strand. The Dark One hums in response, sending a shiver through her body.

"If you remember anything, Rumpelstiltskin, remember this," she whispers, knowing he will hear. "I do not like to be cheated."

Then, clutching the loose end of the ribbon, she sends a great surge along the entire length of magic, burning holes throughout it until it disintegrates and all that is left is the naked soul. She brushes lingering ashes from her hands, knowing that the magic will return to him eventually, but let it be a sort of lesson, to remember what it is like to be mortal.

All who pass through her realm and are given a second chance are forever altered. Some gain a new appreciation for life, some learn to fear every possible, insignificant source of danger they encounter, and in strange cases, depending on the circumstances surrounding death and revival, the conditions in which the soul rejoins the body can affect the very fabric of their soul and personality.

Perhaps the curse from which Belle suffered will leave its mark on her, and perhaps the lust entwined in her cure will also have an effect. After all, she's been exposed to extremely powerful magic. Whatever the consequences of Rumpelstiltskin's actions, he will deserve nothing more or less.

Ha, for a moment there, she nearly sounded like Fate. She shudders at the thought.


End file.
